THE 
)THRR 


POEMS  BY 

ILBERT  FRANKAV 


The 

Other    Side 

And  Other  Poems 


NEW  POETRY  :  FALL  1918 

By  Robert  Graves 

FAIRIES   AND    FUSILIERS 

By  Gilbert  Frankau 
THE   OTHER    SIDE 

By  Max  Eastman 
COLORS    OF    LIFE 

By  Kahili  Gibran 
THE    MADMAN 


Other  Side 


And    Other    Poems 


By 

Gilbert  Frankau 


New  York 

Alfred  A.  Knopf 
MCMXVIII 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY 
GILBERT  FRANKAU 


PRINTED    IN    THK    UNITED    STATES    OT   AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  OTHER  SIDE  3 

THE  JUDGEMENT  OF  VALHALLA  — 

(1)  The  Deserter  13 

(2)  The  Eye  and  the  Truth  14 

(3)  The  Song  of  the  Red-Edged  Steel  16 

(4)  The  Song  of  the  Crashing  Wing  20 

(5)  The  Song  of  the  Gunner-Dead  24 

(6)  Valhalla's  Verdict  27 

AIMEE  — 

(1)  Wife  and  Country  31 

(2)  Mother  and  Mate  32 

(3)  Meeting  33 

(4)  Music  and  Wine  36 

(5)  The  Gamble  38 

(6)  Ninon  and  Roses  40 

(7)  Parting  42 

THE  CITY  OF  FEAR  47 
How  RIFLEMAN  BROWN  CAME  TO  VALHALLA  59 

THE  INN  OF  A  THOUSAND  DREAMS  69 


2083119 


The  Other  Side 


Being  a  letter  from  Major  Average  of  the  Royal  Field 
Artillery  in  Flanders,  acknowledging  a  presentation  copy 
of  a  book  of  <war-<verse,  ivritten  by  a  former  subaltern  of 
his  battery  —  now  in  England. 


THE  BARN 

31/10/17 


The  Other  Side 

Just  got  your  letter  and  the  poems.     Thanks. 

You  always  were  a  brainy  sort  of  chap: 

Though  pretty  useless  as  a  subaltern  — 

Too  much  imagination,  not  enough 

Of  that  rare  quality,  sound  commonsense. 

And  so  you've  managed  to  get  on  the  Staff : 

Influence,  I  suppose:  a  Captain,  too! 

How  do  tabs  suit  you  ?     Are  they  blue  or  green  ? 

About  your  book.     I've  read  it  carefully, 

So  has  Macfaddyen;  (you  remember  him, 

The  light-haired  chap  who  joined  us  after  Loos?)  ; 

And  candidly,  we  don't  think  much  of  it. 

The  piece  about  the  horses  isn't  bad; 

But  all  the  rest,  excuse  the  word,  are  tripe  — 

The  same  old  tripe  we've  read  a  thousand  times. 

My  grief,  but  we're  fed  up  to  the  back-teeth 
With  war-books,  war-verse,  all  the  eye-wash  stuff 
That  seems  to  please  the  idiots  at  home. 
You  know  the  kind  of  thing,  or  used  to  know: 
[3] 


"  Heroes  who  laugh  while  Fritz  is  strafing  them  " — 
(I  don't  remember  that  you  found  it  fun, 
The  day  they  shelled  us  out  of  Blauwpoort  Farm!) 
"  After  the  fight.     Our  cheery  wounded.     Note 
The  smile  of  victory:  it  won't  come  off  " — 
(Of  course  they  smile;  so'd  you,  if  you'd  escaped, 
And  saw  three  months  of  hospital  ahead.  .  .  . 
They  don't  smile,  much,  when  they're  shipped  back 

to  France!) 

"  Out  for  the  Great  Adventure  " —  (twenty-five 
Fat,  smirking  wasters  in  some  O.  T.  C., 
Who  just  avoided  the  Conscription  Act!) 
"  A  strenuous  woman-worker  for  the  Cause  " — 
(Miss  Trixie  Toogood  of  the  Gaiety, 
Who  helped  to  pauperize  a  few  Belgiques 
In  the  great  cause  of  self-advertisement!)   .  .  . 

Lord  knows,  the  newspapers  are  bad  enough ; 
But  they've  got  some  excuse  —  the  censorship  — 
Helping  to  keep  their  readers'  spirits  up  — 
Giving  the  public  what  it  wants:  (besides, 
One  mustn't  blame  the  press,  the  press  has  done 
More  than  its  share  to  help  us  win  this  war  — 
More  than  some  other  people  I  could  name) : 
But  what's  the  good  of  war-books,  if  they  fail 
To  give  civilian-readers  an  idea 
Of  what  life  is  like  in  the  firing-line.  .  .  . 

[4] 


You  might  have  done  that  much;  from  you,   at 

least, 

I  thought  we'd  get  an  inkling  of  the  truth. 
But  no;  you  rant  and  rattle,  beat  your  drum, 
And  blow  your  two-penny  trumpet  like  the  rest: 
"  Red  battle's  glory,"  "  honour's  utmost  task," 
"  Gay  jesting  faces  of  undaunted  boys,"  .  .  . 
The  same  old  Boy's-Own-Paper  balderdash! 

Mind  you,  I  don't  deny  that  they  exist, 
These  abstract  virtues  that  you  gas  about  — 
(We  shouldn't  stop  out  here  long,  otherwise!)  — 
Honour  and  humour,  and  that  sort  of  thing; 
(Though  heaven  knows  where  you  found  the  glory- 
touch, 

Unless  you  picked  it  up  at  G.  H.  Q.)  ; 
But  if  you'd  commonsense,  you'd  understand 
That  humour's  just  the  Saxon  cloak  for  fear, 
Our  English  substitute  for  "  Vive  la  France" 
Or  else  a  trick  to  keep  the  folk  at  home 
From  being  scared  to  death — as  we  are  scared; 
That    honour  .  .  .  damn    it,    honour's    the    one 

thing 

No  soldier  yaps  about,  except  of  course 
A  soldier-poet  —  three-and-sixpence  net. 
Honest  to  God,  it  makes  me  sick  and  tired 
To  think  that  you,  who  lived  a  year  with  us, 
[5] 


Should  be  content  to  write  such  tommy-rot. 

I  feel  as  though  I'd  sent  a  runner  back 

With    news    that    we    were    being    strafed    like 

Hell  .  .  . 

And  he'd  reported:     "Everything  O.  K." 
Something's  the  matter:  either  you  can't  see, 
Or  else  you  see,  and  cannot  write  —  that's  worse. 

Hang  it,  you  can't  have  clean  forgotten  things 
You  went  to  bed  with,  woke  with,  smelt  and  felt, 
All  those  long  months  of  boredom  streaked  with 

fear: 

Mud,   cold,   fatigue,   sweat,   nerve-strain,   sleepless- 
ness, 

And  men's  excreta  viscid  in  the  rain, 
And  stiff-legged  horses  lying  by  the  road, 
Their    bloated     bellies    shimmering,     green     with 
flies.  .  .  . 

Have  you  forgotten?  you  who  dine  to-night 
In  comfort  at  the  Carlton  or  Savoy. 
(Lord,  but  I'd  like  a  dart  at  that  myself  — 
Oysters,  creme  something,  sole  inn  blanc,  a  bird, 
And  one  cold  bottle  of  the  very  best  — 
A  girl  to  share  it:  afterwards,  a  show  — 
Lee  White  and  Alfred  Lester,  Nelson  Keys; 
Supper  to  follow. 

[6] 


.  .  .  Our  Brigade's  in  rest  — 
The  usual  farm.     I've  got  the  only  bed. 
The  men  are  fairly  comfy  —  three  good  barns. 
Thank  God,  they  didn't  have  to  bivouac 
After  this  last  month  in  the  Salient.)   .  .  . 

You  have  forgotten;  or  you  couldn't  write 
This  sort  of  stuff  —  all  cant,  no  guts  in  it, 
Hardly  a  single  picture  true  to  life. 

Well,  here's  a  picture  for  you :  Montauban  — 

Last  year  —  the  flattened  village  on  our  left  — 

On  our  right  flank,  the  razed  Briqueterie, 

Their  five-nines  pounding  bits  to  dustier  bits  — 

Behind,  a  cratered  slope,  with  batteries 

Crashing  and  flashing,  violet  in  the  dusk, 

And  prematuring  every  now  and  then  — 

In  front,  the  ragged  Bois  de  Bernafay, 

Bosche  whizz-bangs  bursting  white  among  its  trees. 

You  had  been  doing  F.O.O.  that  day; 

(The  Staff  knows  why  we  had  an  F.O.O. : 

One  couldn't  flag-wag  through  Trones  Wood;  the 

wires 

Went  down  as  fast  as  one  could  put  them  up ; 
And  messages  by  runner  took  three  hours.) 
I'd  got  the  wind  up  rather:  you  were  late, 
And  they'd  been  shelling  like  the  very  deuce. 
[7] 


However,  back  you  came.     I  see  you  now, 
Staggering  into  "mess" — a  broken  trench, 
Two  chalk-walls  roofed  with  corrugated  iron, 
And,  round  the  traverse,  Driver  Noakes's  stove 
Stinking  and  smoking  while  we  ate  our  grub. 
Your  face  was  blue-white,  streaked  with  dirt;  your 

eyes 

Had  shrunk  into  your  head,  as  though  afraid 
To  watch  more  horrors ;  you  were  sodden-wet 
With  greasy  coal-black  mud  —  and  other  things. 
Sweating  and  shivering,  speechless,  there  you  stood. 
I  gave  you  whisky,  made  you  talk.     You  said : 
"  Major,  another  signaller's  been  killed." 
"Who?" 

"  Gunner  Andrews,  blast  them.  O  my  Christ ! 
His  head  —  split  open  —  when  his  brains  oozed  out, 
They  looked  like  bloody  sweetbreads,  in  the  muck." 

And  you're  the  chap  who  writes  this  clap-trap  verse ! 

Lord,  if  I'd  half  your  brains,  I'd  write  a  book: 
None  of  your  sentimental  platitudes, 
But  something  real,  vital;  that  should  strip 
The  glamour  from  this  outrage  we  call  war, 
Shewing  it  naked,  hideous,  stupid,  vile  — 
One  vast  abomination.     So  that  they 
Who,  coming  after,  till  the  ransomed  fields 
[8] 


Where  our  lean  corpses  rotted  in  the  ooze, 

Reading  my  written  words,  should  understand 

This  stark  stupendous  horror,  visualize 

The  unutterable  foulness  of  it  all.  .  .  . 

I'd    shew    them,    not    your    glamorous    "  glorious 

game," 
Which   men   play   "  jesting "   "  for   their   honour's 

sake  "— 

(A  kind  of  Military  Tournament, 
With  just  a  hint  of  danger  —  bound  in  cloth!)  — 
But  War, —  as  war  is  now,  and  always  was : 
A  dirty,  loathsome,  servile  murder-job:  — 
Men,  lousy,  sleepless,  ulcerous,  afraid, 
Toiling  their  hearts  out  in  the  pulling  slime 
That  wrenches  gum-boot  down  from  bleeding  heel 
And  cakes  in  itching  arm-pits,  navel,  ears : 
Men  stunned  to  brainlessness,  and  gibbering: 
Men  driving  men  to  death  and  worse  than  death: 
Men  maimed  and  blinded :  men  against  machines  — 
Flesh  versus  iron,  concrete,  flame  and  wire: 
Men  choking  out  their  souls  in  poison-gas: 
Men  squelched  into  the  slime  by  trampling  feet: 
Men,  disembowelled  by  guns  five  miles  away, 
Cursing,  with  their  last  breath,  the  living  God 
Because  He  made  them,  in  His  image,  men.  .  .  . 


[9] 


So  —  were  your  talent  mine  —  I'd   write  of  war 

For  those  who,  coming  after,  know  it  not. 

And  if  posterity  should  ask  of  me 

What  high,  what  base  emotions  keyed  weak  flesh 

To  face  such  torments,  I  would  answer:     "You! 

Not  for  themselves,  O  daughters,  grandsons,  sons, 

Your  tortured  forebears  wrought  this  miracle; 

Not  for  themselves,  accomplished  utterly 

This  loathliest  task  of  murderous  servitude; 

But  just  because  they  realized  that  thus, 

And  only  thus,  by  sacrifice,  might  they 

Secure  a  world  worth  living  in  —  for  you."  .  .  . 

Good-night,  my  soldier-poet.     Dormez  blen! 


[10] 


The  Judgement 
of  Valhalla 


THE  BARN 

6/12/17 


The  Deserter 

"  I'm  sorry  I  done  it,  Major." 
We  bandaged  the  livid  face; 
And  led  him  out,  ere  the  wan  sun  rose, 
To  die  his  death  of  disgrace. 

The  bolt-heads  locked  to  the  cartridge; 
The  rifles  steadied  to  rest, 
As  cold  stock  nestled  at  colder  cheek 
And  foresight  lined  on  the  breast. 

"  Fire!  "  called  the  Sergeant-Major. 
The  muzzles  flamed  as  he  spoke: 
And  the  shameless  soul  of  a  nameless  man 
Went  up  in  the  cordite-smoke. 


[13] 


The  Rye  and  the  Truth 

Up  from  the  fret  of  the  earth-world,  through  the 

Seven  Circles  of  Flame, 
With  the  seven  holes  in  Its  tunic  for  sign  of  the 

death-in-shame, 
To   the   little   gate   of   Valhalla   the  coward-spirit 

came. 

Cold,  It  couched  in  the  man-strong  wind  that  sweeps 

Valhalla's  floor; 
Weak,  It  pawed  and  scratched  on  the  wood;  and 

howled,  like  a  dog,  at  the  Door 
Which  is  shut  to  the  souls  who  are  sped  in  shame, 

for  ever  and  evermore: 

For   It  snuffed   the   Meat  of   the   Banquet-boards 

where  the  Threefold  Killers  sit, 
Where   the  Free   Beer  foams  to  the  tankard-rim, 

and  the  Endless  Smokes  are  lit.  .  .  . 
And  It  saw  the  Naked  Eye  come  out  above  the 

lintel-slit. 

[14] 


And  now  It  quailed  at  Naked  Eye  which  judges 

the  naked  dead; 
And  now  It  snarled  at  Naked  Truth  that  broodeth 

overhead ; 
And  now  It  looked  to  the  earth  below  where  the 

gun-flames  flickered  red. 

It  muttered  words  It  had   learned   on   earth,   the 

words  of  a  black-coat  priest 
Who  had  bade  It  pray  to  a  pulpit  god  —  but  ever 

Eye's  Wrath  increased; 
And   It  knew  that  Its  words  were  empty  words, 

and  It  whined  like  a  homeless  beast: 

Till,  black  above  the  lintel-slit,  the  Naked  Eye  went 

out; 
Till,   loud   across   the   Killer-Feasts,    It   heard   the 

Killer-Shout  - 
The  three-fold  song  of  them  that  slew,  and  died 

.  .  .  and  had  no  doubt. 


[15] 


The  Song  of  the  Red-Edged 
Steel 

Below  your  black  priest's  heaven, 

Above  his  tinselled  hell, 
Beyond  the  Circles  Seven, 

The  Red-Steel  Killers  dwell  — 
The  men  who  drove,  to   blade-ring   home,   behind 
the  marching  shell. 

We  knew  not  good  nor  evil, 
Save  only  right  of  blade; 
Yet  neither  god  nor  devil 

Could  hold  us  from  our  trade, 
When    once    we    watched    the    barrage    lift,    and 
splendidly  afraid 

Came  scrambling  out  of  cover, 

And  staggered  up  the  hill.  .  .  . 
The  bullets  whistled  over; 

Our  sudden  dead  lay  still; 

And  the  mad  machine-gun  chatter  drove  us  fight- 
ing-wild to  kill. 

[16] 


Then  the  death-light  lit  our  faces, 

And  the  death-mist  floated  red 
O'er  the  crimson  cratered  places 

Where  his  outposts  crouched  in  dread  .  .  . 
And  we  stabbed  or  clubbed  them  as  they  crouched; 
and  shot  them  as  they  fled; 

And  floundered,  torn  and  bleeding, 
Over  trenches,  through  the  wire, 
With  the  shrapnel-barrage  leading 

To  the  prey  of  our  desire  — 
To  the  men  who  rose  to  meet  us  from  the  blood- 
soaked  battle-mire; 

Met  them;  gave  and  asked  no  quarter; 

But,  where  we  saw  the  Gray, 
Plunged  the  edged  steel  of  slaughter, 

Stabbed  home,  and  wrenched  away  .  .  . 
Till  red  wrists  tired  of  killing-work,  and  none  were 
left  to  slay. 

Now  —  while  his  fresh  battalions 

Moved  up  to  the  attack  — 
Screaming  like  angry  stallions, 

His  shells  came  charging  back, 
And  stamped  the  ground  with  thunder-hooves  and 
pawed  it  spouting-black, 
[17] 


And  breathed  down  poison-stenches 

Upon  us,  leaping  past  .  .  . 
Panting,  we  turned  his  trenches; 

And  heard  —  each  time  we  cast 
From   parapet   to   parados  —  the  scything   bullet- 
blast. 

Till  the  whistle  told  his  coming; 

Till  we  flung  away  the  pick, 
Heard  our  Lewis  guns'  crazed  drumming, 

Grabbed  our  rifles,  sighted  quick, 
Fired  .  .  .  and    watched    his    wounded    writhing 
back  from  where  his  dead  lay  thick. 

So  we  laboured  —  while  we  lasted : 
Soaked  in  rain  or  parched  in  sun; 
Bullet-riddled ;  fire-blasted  ; 

Poisoned;  fodder  for  the  gun: 
So  we  perished,  and  our  bodies  rotted  in  the  ground 
they  won. 


[18] 


It  heard  the  song  of  the  First  of  the  Dead,  as  It 

couched  by  the  lintel-post; 
And  the  coward-soul  would  have  given  Its  soul  to 

be  back  with  the  Red-Steel  host  .  .  . 
But  Eye  peered  down;  and  It  quailed  at  the  Eye; 

and  Naked  Truth  said:     "Lost." 

And  Eye  went  out.     But  It  might  not  move;  for, 

droned  in  the  dark,  It  heard 
The  Second  Song  of  the  Killer-Men  —  word  upon 

awful  word 
Cleaving  the  void  with  a  shrill  keen  sound  like  the 

wings  of  a  pouncing  bird. 


[19] 


The  Song  of  the  Crashing 
Wing 

Higher   than   tinselled  heaven, 
Lower  than  angels  dare, 

op  to  the  fray,  swoop  on  their  prey, 

The  Killers  of  the  Air. 


We  scorned  the  Galilean, 
We  mocked  at  Kingdom-Come: 
The  old  gods  knew  our  paean  — 
Our  dawn-loud  engine-hum: 

The  old  red  gods  of  slaughter, 
The  gods  before  the  Jew! 
We  heard  their  cruel  laughter, 
Shrill  round  us,  as  we  flew: 

When,  deaf  to  earth  and  pity, 
Blind  to  the  guns  beneath, 
We  loosed  upon  the  city 

Our  downward-plunging  death. 
[20] 


The  Sun-God  watched  our  flighting; 
No  Christian  priest  could  tame 
Our  deathly  stuttered  fighting:  — 
The  whirled  drum,  spitting  flame; 

The  roar  of  blades  behind  her; 
The  banking  plane  up-tossed; 
The  swerve  that  sought  to  blind  her; 
Masked   faces,   glimpsed   and   lost; 

The  joy-stick  wrenched  to  guide  her; 
The  swift  and  saving  zoom, 
What  time  the  shape  beside  her 
Went  spinning  to  its  doom. 

No  angel-wings  might  follow 
Where,  poised  behind  the  fray, 
We  spied  our  Lord  Apollo 

Stoop  down   to  mark  his  prey  — 

The  hidden  counter- forces ; 
The  guns  upon  the  road; 
The   tethered    transport-horses, 
Stampeding,  as  we  showed  — 


[21] 


Dun  hawks  of  death,  loud-roaring  — 
A  moment  to  their  eyes: 
And  slew;  and  passed  far-soaring; 
And  dwindled  up  the  skies. 

But  e'en  Apollo's  pinions 
Had  faltered  where  we  ran, 
Low  through  his  veiled  dominions, 
To  lead  the  charging  van! 

The  tree-tops  slathered  under; 
The  Red-Steel  Killers  knew, 
Hard  overhead,  the  thunder 
And  backwash  of  her  screw; 

The  blurred  clouds  raced  above  her; 
The  blurred  fields  streaked  below, 
Where  waited,  crouched  to  cover, 
The  foremost  of  our  foe; 

Banking,  we  saw  his  furrows 
Leap  at  us,  open  wide: 
Hell-raked   the  man-packed  burrows; 
And  crashed  —  and  crashing,  died. 


[22] 


It  heard  the  song  of  the  Dead  in  Air,  as  It  huddled 

against  the  gate; 
And  once  again  the  Eye  peered  down  —  red-rimmed 

with  scorn  and  hate 
For  the  shameless  soul  of  the  nameless  one  who  had 

neither  foe  nor  mate. 

And  Eye  was  shut.  But  Naked  Truth  bent  down 
to  mock  the  Thing :  — 

"  Thou  hast  heard  the  Song  of  the  Red-edged  Steel, 
and  the  Song  of  the  Crashing  Wing: 

Shall  the  word  of  a  black-coat  priest  avail  at  Val- 
halla's harvesting? 

Shalt  thou  pass  free  to  the  Seven  Halls  —  whose 

life  in  shame  was  sped  ?  " 
And  Truth  was  dumb.     But  the  brooding  word 

still  echoed  overhead, 
As  roaring  down  the  void  outburst  the  last  loud 

song  of  the  dead. 


[23] 


The  Song  of  the  Gunner- 
Dead 

In  Thor's  own  red  Valhalla, 
Which  priest  may  not  unbar; 
But  only  Naked  Truth  and  Eye, 
Last  arbiters  of  War; 
Feast,  by  stark  right  of  courage, 
The  Killers  from  Afar. 

We  put  no  trust  in  heaven, 
We  had  no  fear  of  hell; 
But  lined,  and  ranged,  and  timed  to  clock, 
Our  barrage-curtains  fell, 
When    guns    gave    tongue    and    breech-blocks 

swung 
And  palms  rammed  home  the  shell. 

The  Red-Steel  ranks  edged  forward, 
And  vanished  in  our  smoke; 
Back  from  his  churning  craters, 
The  Gray  Man  reeled  and  broke; 
While,  fast  as  sweat  could  lay  and  set, 
Our  rocking  muzzles  spoke. 

[24] 


We  blew  him  from  the  village; 

We  chased  him  through  the  wood: 
Till,  tiny  on  the  crest-line 

Where  once  his  trenches  stood, 

We  watched  the  wag  of  sending  flag 
That  told  our  work  was  good : 

Till,  red  behind  the  branches, 
The  death-sun  sank  to  blood; 
And  the  Red-Steel  Killers  rested.  .  .  . 
But  we,  by  swamp  and  flood, 

Through  mirk  and  night  —  his  shells  for  light 
Blaspheming,  choked  with  mud, 

Roped  to  the  tilting  axles, 
Man-handled  up  the  crest; 
And  wrenched  our  plunging  gun-teams 
Foam-flecked  from  jowl  to  breast, 
Downwards,  and  on,  where  trench-lights  shone 
For  we,  we  might  not  rest! 

Shell-deafened;  soaked  and  sleepless; 
Short-handed;   under  fire; 
Days  upon  nights  unending, 
We  wrought,  and  dared  not  tire  — 
With  whip  and  bit  from  dump  to  pit, 
From  pit  to  trench  with  wire. 
[25] 


The  Killers  in  the  Open, 

The  Killers  down  the  Wind, 
They  saw  the  Gray  Man  eye  to  eye  — 
But  we,  we  fought  him  blind, 

Nor  knew  whence  came  the  screaming  flame 

That  killed  us,  miles  behind. 

Yet,  when  the  triple  rockets 

Flew  skyward,  blazed  and  paled, 

For  sign  the  lines  were  broken; 
When  the  Red  Steel  naught  availed; 

When,  through  the  smoke,  on  shield  and  spoke 

His  rifle-bullets  hailed; 

When  we  waited,  dazed  and  hopeless, 

Till  the  layer's  eye  could  trace 

Helmets,  bobbing  just  above  us 

Like  mad  jockeys  in  a  race.  .  .  . 
Then  —  loaded,  laid,  and  unafraid, 

We  met  him  face  to  face; 

Jerked  the  trigger;  felt  the  trunnions 
Rock  and  quiver;  saw  the  flail 

Of  our  zero-fuses  blast  him ; 
Saw  his  gapping  ranks  turn  tail; 

Heard    the   charging-cheer   behind   us  ... 
And  dropped  dead  across  the  trail. 
[26] 


Valhalla's  Verdict 

It  heard  the  Song  of  the  Gunner-Dead  die  out  to 

a  sullen  roar: 
But   Naked   Truth  said   never  a  word;  and  Eye 

peered  down  no  more. 
For   Eye  had   seen;   and  Truth   had   judged  .  .  . 

and  It  might  not  pass  the  Door! 

And  now,  like  a  dog  in  the  dark,  It  shrank  from 

the  voice  of  a  man  It  knew :  — 
"  There  are  empty  seats  at  the  Banquet-board,  but 

there's  never  a  seat  for  you; 
For  they  will  not  drink  with  a  coward  soul,  the 

stark  red  men  who  slew. 

There's   meat   and    to   spare,    at   the    Killer-Feasts 
where  Thor's  swung  hammer  twirls; 

There's    beer   and    enough,    in    the    Free    Canteen 
where  the  Endless  Smoke  upcurls; 

There  are  lips  and  lips,  for  the  Killer-Men,  in  the 
Hall  of  the  Dancing-Girls. 
[27] 


There's  place  for  any  that  passes  clean  —  but  for 

you  there's  never  a  place: 
The  Endless  Smoke  would  blacken  your  lips,  and 

the  Girls  would  spit  in  your  face, 
And  the  Beer  and  the  Meat  go  sour  on  your  guts  — : 

for  you  died  the  death  of  disgrace. 

We  were  pals  on  earth:  but  by  God's  brave  Son 
and  the  bomb  that  I  reached  too  late, 

I  damn  the  day  and  I  blast  the  hour  when  first  I 
called  you  mate; 

And  I'd  sell  my  soul  for  one  of  my  feet,  to  hack 
you  from  the  gate  — 

To  hack  you  hence  to  the  lukewarm  hells  that  the 

priest-made  ovens  heat, 
Or  the  faked-pearl  heaven  of  pulpit  gods,  where 

the  sheep-faced  angels  bleat 
And  the  halo's  rim  is  as  hard  to  the  head  as  the 

gilded  floor  to  the  feet." 

It  heard  the  stumps  of  Its  one-time  mate  go  wad- 
dling back  to  the  Feast. 

And,  once  and  again,  It  whined  for  the  Meat;  ere 
It  slunk,  like  a  tongue-lashed  beast, 

To   the   tinselled   heaven   of   pulpit   gods   and   the 
tinselled  hell  of  their  priest. 
[28] 


Aimee 


FLANDERS 

1916 


Wife  and  Country 

Dear,  let  me  thank  you  for  this: 
That  you  made  me  remember,  in  fight, 
England  —  all  mine  at  your  kiss, 
At  the  touch  of  your  hands  in  the  night : 
England  —  your  giving's  delight. 


[31] 


Mother  and  Mate 

Lightly  she  slept,  that  splendid  mother  mine 
Who     faced     death,     undismayed,     two     hopeless 

years  .  .  . 

("  Think  of  me  sometimes,  son,  but  not  with  tears 
Lest  my  soul  grieve,"  she  writes.  Oh,  this  divine 
Unselfishness!)  .  .  . 

Her  favourite  print  smiled  down  — 
The  stippled  Cupid,  Bartolozzi-brown  — 
Upon  my  sorrow.     Fire-gleams,  fitful,  played 
Among  her  playthings  —  Toby  mugs  and  jade.  .  .  . 

And   then    I    dreamed   that  —  suddenly,   strangely 

clear  — 

A  voice  I  knew  not,  faltered  at  my  ear: 
"Courage!"  .  .  .  Your    own    dear    voice,    loved 

since,  and  known! 

And    now   that  she   sleeps  well,   come   times   her 
voice 

Whispers    in    day-dreams :     "  Courage,    son !    Re- 
joice 

That,  leaving  you,  I  left  you  not  alone." 
[32] 


Meeting 


I  came  from  the  City  of  Fear, 

From  the  scarred  brown  land  of  pain, 

Back  into  life  again  .  .  . 

And  I  thought,  as  the  leave-boat  rolled 

Under  the  veering  stars  — 

Wind  a-shriek  in  her  spars  — 

Shivering  there,  and  cold, 

Of  music,  of  warmth,  and  of  wine  — 

To  be  mine 

For  a  whole  short  week  .  .  . 

And  I  thought,  adrowse  in  the  train, 

Of  London,  suddenly  near; 

And  of  how  —  small  doubt  —  I  should  find 

There,  as  of  old, 

Some  woman  —  foolishly  kind : 

Fingers  to  hold, 

A  cheek, 

A  mouth  to  kiss  —  and  forget, 

Forget  in  a  little  while, 

Forget 

When  I  came  again 

[33] 


To  the  scarred  brown  land  of  pain, 
To  the  sodden  things  and  the  vile, 
And  the  tedious  battle-fret. 

My   dear, 

I  cannot  forget! 

Not  even  here 

In  this  City  of  Fear. 

I  remember  the  poise  of  your  head, 

And  your  look,  and  the  words  you  said 

When  we  met, 

And  the  waxen  bloom  at  your  breast, 

And  the  sable  fur  that  caressed 

Your  smooth  white  wrists,  and  your  hands 

Remember  them  yet, 

Here 

In  the  desolate  lands; 

Remember  your  shy 

Strange  air, 

And   growing  aware  — 

I, 

Who  had  reckoned  love 
Man's  toy  for  an  hour  — 
Of  love's  hidden  power: 
A  thrill 

That  moved  me  to  touch  and  adore 
Some  intimate  thing  that  you  wore  — 
[341 


A  glove, 

Or  the  flower 

A-glow  at  your  breast, 

The  frill 

Of  fur  that  circled  your  wrist 

These,  had  my  hands  caressed; 

These,  not  you,  had  I  kissed  — 

I, 

Who  had  thought  love's  fires 
Only  desires. 

Dear, 

That  hidden  power 

Thrills  in  me  yet. 

There  is  never  one  hour  — 

Not  even  here 

In  this  City  of  Fear  — 

When  I  quite  forget. 


[35] 


Music  and  Wine 

When  the  ink  has  dried  on  the  pen, 

When  the  sword  returns  to  its  sheath; 

When  the  world  of  women  and  men, 

And  the  waters  around  and  beneath, 

Char  and  shrivel  and  burn  — 

What  will  God  give  in  return?  .  .  . 

Has  He  better  to  offer  in  heaven  above 

Than  wine  and  music,  laughter  and  love? 

Laughter,  music  and  wine, 

The  promise  of  love  in  your  eyes  .  .  . 

Sleeping,  I  dream  them  mine; 

Waking,  my  spirit  cries  — 

Here,  in  the  mud  and  the  rain  — 

"  God,  give  me  London  again ! 
I  would  lose  all  earth  and  the  heavens  above 
For  just  one  banquet  of  laughter  and  love." 


[36] 


When  my  flesh  returns  to  its  earth, 

When  my  pen  is  dust  as  my  sword; 

If  one  thing  I  wrought  find  worth 

In  the  eyes  of  our  kindly  Lord, 

I  will  only  ask  of  His  grace 

That  He  grant  us  a  lowly  place 
Where  his  warriors  toast  Him,  in  heaven  above, 
With  wine  and  music,  laughter  and  love. 


[37] 


The  Gamble 

If  man  backs  horses,  plays  cards  or  dice, 

Or  bets  on  an  ivory  ball, 
He  knows  the  rules,  and  he  reckons  the  price  — 

Be  it  one  half-crown,  or  his  all. 
(And  it  isn't  sense,  and  it  isn't  pluck, 
To  double  the  stakes  when  you're  out  of  luck!) 

If  he  plays  —  with  his  life  for  a  limit  —  here, 

It's  an  even-money  game: 
He   can   lay   on   the   Red  —  which   is   Conquered 

Fear, 

Or  the  Black  —  which  is  Utter  Shame. 
(And  there  isn't  much  choice  between  Reds  and 

Blacks, 
For  Death  throws  "zero"  whichever  he  backs.) 

[38] 


So   that   whether   man   plays   for   the   red   gold's 
wealth 

Where  the  little  ball  clicks  and  spins, 
Or  hazards  his  life  in  the  black  night's  stealth 

When  machine-gun  fire  begins  — 
It's  a  limited  gamble;  and  each  of  us  knows 
What  he  stands  to  lose  ere  the  tables  close. 

But  woman's  gamble —  (there's  only  one: 

And  it  takes  some  pluck  to  play, 
When  the  rules  are  broke  ere  the  game's  begun; 

When,  lose  or  win,  you  must  pay!)  — 
Is  a  double  wager  on  human  kind, 
A  limitless  risk  —  and  she  goes  it  blind. 

For  she  stakes,  at  love,  on  a  single  throw, 
Pride,  Honour,  Scruples  and  Fears, 

And  dreams  no  lover  can  hope  to  know, 
And  the  gold  of  the  after-years. 

(And  all  for  a  man;  and  there's  no  man  lives 

Who  is  worth  the  odds  that  a  woman  gives.) 

So  that  since  you  hazarded  this  for  me 

On  the  day  love's  die  was  cast, 
I'll    love    you  —  gambler!  —  while    "fours"    beat 

three  ; 

And  I'll  lay  on  our  love  to  last, 
So  long  as  a  man  will  wager  a  price 
On  a  horse  or  a  card  or  the  ball  or  the  dice. 
[39] 


Ninon  and  Roses 

Here,  in  a  land  where  hardly  a  rose  is, 
Silkiest  blossoms  of  broidered  flowers 

Brush  my  cheek  as  each  tired  eye  closes, 

Haunt  my  sleep  through  the  desolate  hours. 

Roses  never  of  nature's  making, 

Roses  loved  for  a  rose-red  night, 
Roses  visioned  at  dawn-light's  breaking 

Veiling  a  bosom  as  roses  white! 

Why  does  the  ghost  of  you  linger  and  stay  with 

me  — 

Ghost  of  the  rose-buds  that  perfumed  our  bed, 
Ghost  of  a  rose-girl  who  blossomed  to  play  with 

me  — 
Here  in  a  land  where  the  roses  are  dead? 


[40] 


Day-time   and   night-time  the  death-flower  blazes, 

Saffron  at  gun-lip  and  orange  and  red, 
Here  where  June's  rose-tree  lies  shattered  as  May's 

is, 

Here   where   I    dream   of   the   nights   that   are 
dead  — 

Nights  that  were  sweet  with   the  scent  and   the 

touch  of  you, 

Rose-girl  in  ninon  with  buds  at  your  breast, 
Rose-girl   who  promised  and  granted  so  much  of 

you, 
All  that  was  tender  and  all  that  was  best. 

Growl  of  the  guns  cannot  shatter  the  dream  of  you, 
Banish  the  thought  of  one  exquisite  hour, 

Or  the  scent  of  your  hair  in  the  dawn,  or  the  gleam 

of  you 
White  as  white  roses  through  roses  a-flower. 


[41] 


Parting 


Times  more  than  once,  all  ways  about  the  world, 

Have  I  clasped  hands;  waved  sorrowful  good- 
bye; 
Watched  far  cliffs  fading,  till  my  sea-wake  swirled 

To  mingle  bluely  with  a  landless  sky: 
Then  —  even   as  the  sea-drowned  cliffs  behind  — 

Felt  sorrow  drowning  into  memory; 
And  heard,  in  every  thrill  of  every  wind, 

New  voices  welcoming  across  the  sea. 

Until  it  seemed  nor  land  nor  love  had  power 

To  hold  my  heart  in  any  firm  duress: 
Grieving,  I  sorrowed  but  a  little  hour; 

Loving,  I  knew  desire's  sure  faithlessness: 
Until,  by  many  a  love  dissatisfied, 

Of  each  mistrustful  and  to  each  untrue, 
I  found  —  as  one  who,  having  long  denied, 

Finds  faith  at  last  —  this  greater  Love,  in  you. 
[42] 


Parting?     We  are  not  parted,  woman  mine! 

Though   hands   have   clasped,   though   lips   have 

kissed  good-bye; 

Though  towns  glide  past,  and  fields,  and  fields  of 
brine  — 

My  body  takes  the  warrior-way,  not  I. 
I  am  still  with  you;  you,  with  me;  one  heart; 

One  equal  union,  soul  to  certain  soul: 
Time  cannot  sever  us,  nor  sorrow  part, 

Nor  any  sea,  who  keep  our  vision  whole. 

How  can  I  grieve,  who  know  your  spirit  near; 

Who  watch  with  newly  understanding  eyes 
This  England  of  your  giving,  newly  dear, 

Sink    where    my    sea-wake    swirls    to    darkling 

skies? 
Lilac,  her  cliffs  have  faded  into  mist  .  .  . 

Yet  still  I  hold  them  white  in  memory, 
Feeling,  against  these  lips  your  lips  have  kissed, 

The  home-wind  thrilling  down  an  English  sea. 


[43] 


The  City  of  Fear 


YPRES 
January,  igi6 


The  City  of  Fear 

This  was  a  city  once:  women  lived  here; 

Their  voices  were  low  to  their  lovers,  o'  nights  by 

the  murmuring  waters; 
Their    hands   were   busied   with    home  —  mothers 

and  daughters, 
Sisters  and  wives: 
Now,   the  shell  dives 
To  scatter  anew  the  shattered  remains  of  the  homes 

that  their  hands  made  dear; 
Fear 

Walks  naked  at  noonday's  clear 
Where    the   shopman   proffered    his   wares   to   the 

loitering  street, 
Where  the  Mass  was  read. 
Above, 

The  war-birds  beat 
And  whistle:  and  love 
And  laughter  and  work  and  the  hum  of  the  city 

are  utterly  dead. 

[47] 


Never  a  barge 

Ruffles  the  long  canals:  the  lock-gates  rot, 

Letting  thin  runnels  spout : 

Never  the  plash  of  a  rope  in  the  reeds  nor  the  pash 
of  a  hoof  on  the  marge, 

Ciack  of  whip,  nor  the  shout 

Of  driver  gladdens  the  quiet:  the  foul  weeds  knot, 

Strangling  the  sluggish  flow  of  the  waterway; 

Slime  of  decay 

Clots  on  the  banks  where  the  shell-holes  cut  deep 
and  the  shored  edges  crumble, 

Clots  on  the  piers  of  the  bridges  that  echo  to  trans- 
port wheels'  rumble 

At   fall   of   the   night 

When  no  light 

Is  a-gleam  — 

Till  the  sudden  flame  from  a  gun-muzzle  crimsons 
the  ebon  glass  of  the  stream. 

Here,  where  the  rails 

Ran  straight  and  glittering,  linking  city  to  teeming 

prosperous  plain, 
Mist  and  the  rain 
And  long  disuse  have  rusted  the  glint  of  the  steel 

that  the  wheels  made  shining; 
Flame  and  steel  have  twisted   the  steel  from   the 

lines  of  its  fair  designing: 
[48] 


Gold  with  grain, 

Shone  the  fields  once  when  the  harvest  of  peace- 
time was  ripe  to  the  sun  for  the  flails; 

Green  and  red, 

Gleamed  the  lights  once  when  the  track  was 
a-quiver,  a-roar  with  the  freight  and  the 
mails  — 

But  the  life  of  the  farm  and  the  life  of  the  field  and 
the  traffic  of  peacetime  are  utterly  dead. 

The  brown  roads  run 

Bare  to  the  sun; 

Not  a  cart 

Jingles  in  through  the  gates  that  our  torn  graves 
guard 

To  the  mart  ; 

Never  a  peasant  girl  passes  and  smiles  with  raised 
eyes  for  a  greeting, 

Never  men  clink  at  the  cottage  the  cup  of  the  way- 
farers' meeting; 

(Strown 

Into  heaps  by  the  roadside  the  cottages,  blown 

And  riven  by  shell-fire,  and  scarred!) 

Only  at  night,  when  the  dank  mists  arise  and  the 
gaze  of  our  watchers  is  hidden, 

Comes  tramp  and  muttered  cursing  of  infantry, 
rush  of  horse  ridden 

[49] 


In  fear  of  the  dark — 

For  who  knows  how  the  far  shell  may  swerve  or 
the  blind  bullet  hiss  to  its  mark! 

Roadway,  water  or  rail,  the  life  has  died  in  the 

veins, 

As  life  is  dead  at  the  breast; 
Only  remains 
The  hollow  corpse  of  a  city,  slashed  and  gutted  of 

war, 

A  grinning  skeleton-city,  mocking  the  eye  from  afar 
With  a  hangman's  jest  — 
With  tower  and  chimney  and  gable  where  scarcely 

swallows  might  rest. 
Look  well, 

Ye  that  shall  die  as  we  died! 
Is  there  roof  of  these  roofs  to  guard  your  heads 

from  the  wind  or  the  rain  or  the  sun? 
Is  there  wall  unholed  of  the  gun, 
Or  street  unpitted  of  shell? 
Is  there  place  where  Man  might  abide  .  .  . 
Has  the  house  he  built  for  his  scornful  gods  been 

proof  'gainst  the  shafts  of  Hell? 
Ruin  is  over  it  all,  hideous,  complete: 
Street  upon  street; 
House  upon  house  that  was  gay  with   the  patter 

of  lost  children's  feet, 
[50] 


Whose  windows  were  mirrors  of  lamp-light  to 
beckon  its  worker  returning 

To  welcome  of  arms  and  of  eyes,  to  the  warmth  of 
the  home-fires  bright  burning; 

Palace  and  cot; 

Their  charred  beams  rot 

And  their  rent  walls  gape  as  they  totter,  betraying 
the  havoc  within  — 

Iron  and  tin, 

Brickwork  and  stone, 

Glasswork  and  tilework  and  woodwork  to  refuse- 
heaps  battered  and  spilt  and  o'erthrown. 

Through  the  storied  square  — 

Where  aforetime  the  belfry  spired 

In  a  moonbeam-fretted  splendour  of  stone  that  was 

pride  of  a  guild  long  dead, 
Where  the  glory  of  glass 
Was  fired 
By  the  orange  flames  of  a  thousand  candles  ablaze 

on  altar  and  shrine, 
Till  the  quiet  beauty  of  perfect  things  was  warm  to 

the  soul  as  wine  — 
Men  pass 
Hurriedly,  fearfully,  quickening  the  footstep,  barely 

averting  the  head 


To  vision  in  dread 

A  gleaming,  terrible  desert,  pit-failed  with  shadow- 
wells, 

Blasted  and  bored  by  the  shells, 

Jagged  with  rocks:  — 

For  the  steel  has  stripped 

And  ravished  the  splendours  of  graven  stone,  the 
ruby  glory  of  glass, 

Till  apse  and  gargoyle,  buttress  and  nave, 

Reredos,  pillar,  and  crypt, 

Lie  tumbled  and  crumbled  to  monstrous  ruins  of 
splintering  granite-blocks  .  .  . 

Over  the  grave 

Of  the  work  that  was  spared  for  the  sake  of  the 
work  by  the  Vandals  of  elder  wars, 

Only  one  tattered  pinnacle  leers  to  the  calm  of  the 
outraged  stars. 

This  is  the  City  of  Fear! 

Death 

Has  ringed  her  walls  with  his  sickle,  has  choked 

her  streets  with  his  breath ; 
In  her  cellars  the  rat  feeds  red 
On  the  bodies  of  those  whom  their  own  roofbeams 

betrayed  to  him  as  they  fled  — 
For  none  live  here 

[52] 


Save  you  that  shall  die,  as  we  died,  for  the  city, 

and  we,  your  dead 
Whom  God  for  the  sake  of  our  one  brave  dream 

has  garnered  into  His  hand  .  .  . 
Will  He  give  them  to  understand, 
The  proud   and   the   thankless  cities  we  left  in  a 

sheltered  land? 

Should  we  care  at  all? 

Should  we  not  turn  and  take  rest  from  our  labours ; 

Here,  where  you  buried  us,  sleep? 

Forget  the  dream  that  was  cheap  at  life,  forget  the 

wounds  and  the  pain; 
Never  again 
Remember  the  call 
That   came   to   our   souls   in    the   sheltered   cities, 

drawing  us  over  the  deep? 
Remember  in  vain! 

Gladly  we  came  — 

From  peaceful  homeland  village;  from  the  raw  dun 
dusty  town, 

Where  sun  of  the  North  drops  down 

In   purple    behind    the   prairie;    from   the   pulsing 
plate-glass  streets, 

That  are  bright  with  the  girls  of  our  younger  na- 
tions at  southern  rim  of  the  sea; 
[53] 


From  lazy  tropic  townships,  where  light  of  day  is 

a  flame, 

And  the  night  wave  beats 
In  fire  on  the  scented  foreshores,  and  the  cicad  sings 

in  the  tree; 
From  the  gay  gray  mother  of  all  our  cities,  at  ease 

on  her  banks  of  Thame  — 
Came  and  died, 
Here 
In  the  City  of  Fear. 

Gladly  we  died, 

But  in  death  is  no  peace  for  us, 

Rest  nor  release  for  us. 

Had  you  buried  us  deep  — 

You  whom  we  left  to  fulfill  us  the  task  that  was 

stricken  out  of  our  power  — 
Had  you  rolled  the  battle-tide  back  from  our  city, 

till  only  the  growl  of  your  guns 
Fell  faint  on  our  ears  as  the  baying  of  hounds  that 

were  hunting  over  the  hill, 
Perchance  we  might  sleep: 
But  day  upon  day  that  grows  weary,  and  hour  upon 

slow-footed  hour, 
The  long  year  runs; 

[54] 


And  ever  the  foeman  beats  at  the  gates  and  batters 

at  rampart  and  tower, 
And  our  souls  are  unquiet,   for  the  voice  of  our 

dreaming  will  neither  rest  nor  be  still. 

Our  spirits  fret 

Through  the  troubled  night 

To  each  sputter  of  rifle-fire, 

To  each  clink  of  your  transport  wheels; 

Fret 

To  the  roar  and   flash  of  your  sleepless  guns,  to 

the  tread  of  your  feet  in  the  mire, 
To  each  soaring  light 
That  reveals, 
In  a  silvern  silhouette, 
House  and  tree  and  the  hump  of  a  crest  and  the 

broken  tooth  of  a  spire; 
Fret, 

By  day  when  the  high  planes  drone, 
And  the  great  shells  throb  through  the  void, 
And  the  trenches  blur  in  the  gray; 
Fret,  and  pray 
That  the  hour  be  near 
When  the  bonds  of  the  foeman  that  hold  us  be 

utterly  broke  and  destroyed, 
And  ours  alone, 
The  City  of  Fear. 

[55] 


How  can  we  rest, 

Knowing  it  all  unaccomplished,  the  vow  that  was 

dear  to  us  dying? 
How  can  we  sleep  or  be  still 
In  our  tombs  that  are  spattered  and  ploughed  by  the 

shell-bursts  and  shaken  by  salvoes  replying, 
Till  dead  bones  thrill; 

Till  our  souls  break  forth  from  the  grave  — 
Unshriven,  unblest  — 
To  flutter  and  shrill 
Down  the  winds  that  murmur  and  moan  in  the 

ruins  our  bodies  were  tortured  to  save. 

Ye  that  remain, 

Have  ye  no  pity 

For  us  that  are  sped? 

Was  it  then  vain, 

Vain  that  we  bartered  our  youth  for  the  walls  of 

the  desolate  city, 
Bartered  the  red 
Life's  blood,  and  the  hopes  that  were  dearer  than 

blood  and  the  uttermost  faith  that  was  given 

us? 

Death  hath  not  shriven  us  ... 
Shrive  ye  your  dead! 


[56] 


How  Rifleman  Brown 
Came  to  Valhalla 


NEU7E  EGLISE 
June,  igi6 


How  Rifleman  Brown  Came 
to  Valhalla 

To  the  lower  Hall  of  Valhalla,  to  the  heroes  of  no 

renown, 
Relieved  from  his  spell  at  the  listening-post,  came 

Rifleman  Joseph  Brown. 
With  never  a  rent  in  his  khaki  nor  smear  of  blood 

on  his  face, 
He  flung  his  pack  from  his  shoulders,  and  made  for 

an  empty  place. 

The   Killer-men   of  Valhalla  looked   up   from  the 

banquet-board 
At  the  unfouled  breech  of  his  rifle,  at  the  unfleshed 

point  of  his  sword; 
And  the  unsung  dead  of  the  trenches,   the  kings 

who  have  never  a  crown, 
Demanded    his    pass    to    Valhalla    from    Rifleman 

Joseph  Brown. 

[59] 


"  Who  comes,  unhitj  to  the  party?  "  A  one-legged 
Corporal  spoke, 

And  the  gashed  heads  nodded  approval  through  the 
rings  of  the  Endless  Smoke: 

"  Who  comes  for  the  beer  and  the  Woodbines  of 
the  never-closed  Canteen, 

"  With  the  barrack-shine  on  his  bayonet  and  a  full- 
charged  magazine?  " 

Then   Rifleman   Brown   looked   round   him   at  the 

nameless  men  of  the  Line  — 
At  the  wounds  of  the  shell  and  the  bullet,  at  the 

burns  of  the  bomb  and  the  mine; 
At  the  tunics,  virgin  of  medals  but  crimson-clotted 

with  blood; 
At  the  ankle-boots  and  the  puttees,  caked  stiff  with 

the  Flanders  mud; 
At  the  myriad  short  Lee-Enfields  that  crowded  the 

rifle-rack, 
Each  with  its  blade  to  the  sword-boss  brown,  and 

its  muzzle  powder-black:  * 

And  Rifleman  Brown  said  never  a  word;  yet  he 

felt  in  the  soul  of  his  soul 
His  right  to  the  beer  of  the  lower  Hall,  though  he 

came  to  drink  of  it,  whole; 

[60] 


His  right  to  the  fags  of  the  free  Canteen,  to  a 

seat  at  the  banquet-board, 
Though  he  came  to  the  men  who  had  killed  their 

man,  with  never  a  man  to  his  sword. 

"  Who  speaks  for  the  stranger  Rifleman,   O   boys 

of  the  free.  Canteen? 
Who  passes  the  chap  with  the  unmaimed  limbs  and 

the  kit  that  is  far  too  clean?" 
The  gashed  heads  eyed  him  above  their  beers,  the 

gashed  lips  sucked  at  their  smoke: 
There  were  three  at  the  board  of  his  own  platoon, 

but  not  a  man  of  them  spoke. 

His  mouth  was  mad  for  the  tankard  froth  and  the 

biting  whiff  of  a  fag, 
But  he  knew  that  he  might  not  speak  for  himself 

to  the  dead  men  who  do  not  brag. 

A  gun-butt  crashed  on  the  gateway,  a  man  came 

staggering  in; 
His  head  was  cleft  with  a  great  red  wound  from 

the  temple-bone  to  the  chin, 
His  blade  was  dyed  to  the  bayonet-boss  with  the 

clots  that  were  scarcely  dry; 

And  he  cried  to  the  men  who  had  killed  their  man : 
"Who  passes  the  Rifleman?     I! 
[61] 


By  the  four  I  slew,  by  the  shell  I  stopped,  if  my 

feet  be  not  too  late, 
I  speak  the  word  for  Rifleman  Brown  that  a  chap 

may  speak  for  his  mate." 

The  dead  of  lower  Valhalla,  the  heroes  of  dumb 

renown, 
They  pricked  their  ears  to  a  tale  of  the  earth  as 

they  set  their  tankards  down. 
"  My  mate  was  on  sentry  this  evening  when  the 

General  happened  along, 
And  as,ked  what  he'd  do  in  a  gas-attack.     Joe  told 

him :     '  Beat  on  the  gong.' 
'What  else?' 

'  Open  fire,  Sir,'  Joe  answered. 

'  Good  God,  man,'  our  General  said, 
'  By  the  time  you'd  beaten  that  bloodstained  gong 

the  chances  are  you'd  be  dead. 
Just   think,    lad.'     '  Gas   helmet,    of    course,    Sir.' 

'  Yes,  damn  it,  and  gas  helmet  first.' 
So  Joe  stood  dumb  to  attention,  and  wondered  why 

he'd  been  cursed." 

The  gashed  heads  turned  to  the  Rifleman,  and  now 

it  seemed  that  they  knew 
Why  the  face  that  had  never  a  smear  of  blood  was 

stained  to  the  jawbones,  blue. 
[62] 


"  He  was  posted  again  at  midnight."     The  scarred 

heads  craned  to  the  voice, 
As  the  man  with  the  blood-red  bayonet  spoke  up 

for  the  mate  of  his  choice. 
"  You  know  what  it's  like  "in  a  listening-post,  the 

Very  candles  aflare, 
Their  bullets  smacking  the  sand-bags,  our  Vickers 

combing  your  hair, 
How  your  ears  and  your  eyes  get  jumpy,  till  each 

known  tuft  that  you  scan 
Moves  and  crawls  in  the  shadows  till  you'd  almost 

swear  it  was  man; 
You  know  how  you  peer  and  snuff  at  the  night 

when  the  North-East  gas-winds  blow." 
"  By  the  One  who  made  us  and  maimed  us"  quoth 

lower  Valhalla,  "  we  know!  " 

"  Sudden,   out  of   the  blackness,   sudden   as   Hell, 

there  came 
Roar  and    rattle   of   rifles,   spurts  of  machine-gun 

flame; 
And  Joe  stood  up  in  the  forward  sap  to  try  and 

fathom  the  game. 
Sudden,   their  shells  come  screaming;  sudden,  his 

nostrils  sniff 
The  sickening  reek  of  the  rotten  pears,  the  death 

that  kills  with  a  whiff. 
[63] 


Death!  and  he  knows  it  certain,  as  he  bangs  on  his 

cartridge-case, 
With  the  gas-cloud's  claws  at  his  windpipe  and  the 

gas  cloud's  wings  on  his  face.  .  .  . 
We  heard  his  gong  in  our  dug-out,  he  only  whacked 

on  it  twice, 
We   whipped    our   gas-bags   over   our   heads,    and 

manned  the  step  in  a  trice  — 
For   the  cloud   would   have  caught  us  as  sure  as 

Fate  if  he'd  taken  the  Staff's  advice." 

His  head  was  cleft  with  a  great  red  wound  from 

the  chin  to  the  temple-bone, 
But   his  voice  was  as  clear   as  a  sounding  gong, 

"  I'll  be  damned  if  I'll  drink  alone, 
Not  even  in  lower  Valhalla!     Is  he  free  of  your 

free  Canteen, 
My  mate  who  comes  with  the  unfleshed  point  and 

the  full-charged  magazine?" 

The  gashed   heads   rose   at  the  Rifleman   o'er  the 

rings  of  the  Endless  Smoke, 
And  loud  as  the  roar  of  a  thousand  guns  Valhalla's 

answer  broke, 
And  loud  as  the  crash  of  a  thousand  shells  their 

tankards  clashed  on  the  board: 

[64] 


"  He  is  free  of  the  mess  of  the  Killer-men,  your 

mate  of  the  unfleshed  sword; 
For  we  know  the  worth  of  his  deed  on  earth;  as 

we  know  the  speed  of  the  death 
Which  catches  its  man  by  the  back  of  the  throat 

and  gives  him  water  for  breath; 
As  we  know  how  the  hand  at  the  helmet-cloth  may 

tarry  seconds  too  long, 
When  the  very  life  of  the  front-line  trench  is  staked 

on  the  beat  of  a  gong. 
By  the  four  you  slew,  by  the  case  he  smote,  by  the 

gray  gas-cloud  and  the  green, 
We  pass  your  mate  for  the  Endless  Smoke  and  the 

beer  of  the  free  Canteen" 


In  the  lower  hall  of  Valhalla,  with  the  heroes  of  no 

renown, 
With  our  nameless  dead  of   the  Marne  and  the 

Aisne,  of  Mons,  and  of  Wipers  town, 
With  the  men  who  killed  ere  they  died  for  us,  sits 

Rifleman  Joseph  Brown. 


[65] 


The  Inn  of  a  Thousand 
Dreams 


NEUVE  EGLISE 

June,  1916 


Where  the  road  climbs  free  from  the  marsh  and  the 
sea 

To  the  last  rose  sunset-gleams, 
Twixt  a  fold  and  a  fold  of  the  Kentish  wold 

Stands  the  Inn  of  a  Thousand  Dreams. 

No  man  may  ride  with  map  for  guide 

And  win  that  tavern-door; 
As  none  shall  come  by  rule  of  thumb 

To  our  blue-bells'  dancing-floor: 
For  no  path  leads  through  Churchyard  Meads 

And  the  fringes  of  Daffodil  Wood, 
To  the  heart  of  the  glade  where  the  flower-folk 
played 

In  the  days  when  the  gods  were  good. 

[69] 


Who  hastes  our  wold  with  naught  but  gold, 

Who  seeks  but  food  and  wine, 
The  wood-folk  wise  shall  blind  his  eyes 

To  the  creaking  tavern-sign; 
He  shall  know  the  goad  of  the  folk  of  the  road, 

And  his  led  wheels  shall  not  find 
The  gabled  beams  that  sheltered  our  dreams 

In  the  nights  when  the  gods  were  kind. 

We  had  never  a  chart  save  our  own  sure  heart 

And  the  summoning  sunset-gleams, 
When  you  rode  with  me  from  the  marsh  and  the 
sea 

To  the  Inn  of  a  Thousand  Dreams. 

No  sign-post  showed  the  curved  hill-road 

Our  purring  engines  clomb, 
From  where  dead  forts  of  dying  ports 

Loomed  gray  against  gray  foam: 
We  had  never  a  book  for  the  way  we  took, 

But  the  oast-house  chimney-vanes 
Stretched  beckoning  hands  o'er  the  lambing-lands 

To  point  us  their  Kentish  lanes. 


[70] 


As  certain-true  our  track  we  flew, 

As  nesting  swiftsures  flit; 
By  stream  and  down  and  county  town, 

And  orchards  blossom-lit: 
For  Pan's  own  heels  were  guiding  our  wheels, 

And  Pan's  self  checked  our  speed 
In  the  spire-crowned  street  where  the  by-ways  meet, 

For  a  sign  of  the  place  decreed. 

Rose-impearled  o'er  a  wonder-world 
Glowed  the  last  of  the  sunset-gleams; 

And  we  knew  that  fate  had  led  to  the  gate 
Of  the  Inn  of  our  Thousand  Dreams. 

Who  needs  must  pique  with  kitchen-freak 

His  jaded  appetite, 
He  shall  not  know  jur  set  cloth's  snow, 

Our  primrose  candle-light: 
We  had  never  a  need  of  the  waiter-breed 

Or  an  alien  bandsman's  blare, 
When  we  pledged  a  toast  to  our  landlord  host 

As  he  served  us  his  goodwife's  fare. 


In  right  of  guest,  they  gave  their  best: 

No  hireling  hands  outspread 
White  bridal-dress  from  linen-press, 

To  drape  our  marriage-bed : 
They  had  never  a  thought  for  the  price  we  brought, 

The  simple  folk  and  the  fine, 
Who  made  us  free  of  their  hostelry 

In  the  nights  when  all  dreams  were  mine. 

When  the  trench-lights  rise  to  the  storm-dark  skies 
Where  the  gun-flash  flickers  and  gleams, 

My  soul  flies  free  o'er  an  English  sea 
To  the  Inn  of  a  Thousand  Dreams. 

Once  more  we  flit,  hands  passion-knit, 

By  marsh  and  murmuring  shore, 
By  Tenterden  and  Bennenden, 

To  our  own  tavern-door; 
And  again  we  go,  where  the  sunsets  glow 

On  the  beech-tree's  silvern  plinth, 
Down  woodpaths  set  with  violet 

And  Spring's  wild  hyacinth. 


[72] 


Once  more  we  pass,  by  roads  of  grass, 

To  find  for  our  delight 
Trim  garden-plots,  and  shepherds'  cots  — 

Half-timbered,  black-and-white  .  .  . 
There  is  never  one  gash  of  a  shrapnel-splash 

On  the  walls  of  the  street  we  roam, 
Where  the  forge-irons  ring  for  our  welcoming 

As  the  twilight  calls  us  home. 

Till  the  trench-lights  pale  on  the  gray  dawn-veil 

Of  the  first  wan  sunrise-gleams, 
My  soul  would  bide  with  its  spirit-bride 

At  the  Inn  of  a  Thousand  Dreams. 

Once  more  I  press,  in  tenderness, 

(Dear  God,  that  dreams  were  true!) 
Your  finger-tips  against  these  lips 

Your  own  red-rose  lips  knew, 

In   the   middle   night   when   your   throat   gleamed 
white 

On  your  dark  hairs'  pillowed  sheen, 
And  your  eyes  were  the  pools  that  a  moonbeam  cools 

For  the  feet  of  a  faery  queen. 


[73] 


Woman  o'mine,  heart's  anodyne 

Against  unkindly  fate, 
Love's  aureole  about  my  soul, 

Wife,  mistress,  comrade,  mate! 
I  stretch  ghost-hands  from  the  stricken  lands 

Where  my  earth-bound  body  lies, 
To  touch  your  fair  smooth  brow,  your  hair, 

Your  lips,  your  sleeping  eyes: 

You  are  living-warm  in  the  crook  of  my  arm, 
You  are  pearl  in  the  firelight-gleams  .  .  . 

Till  the  blind  night  rocks  with  the  cannon-shocks 
That  shatter  a  thousand  dreams. 


[74] 


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